


Birds Of A Feather

by Black_Zora



Category: Krabat | The Satanic Mill - Otfried Preußler
Genre: Black School, Canonical Character Death, Dark Magic, M/M, Memories, Mill Life, the Sultan's eagle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 01:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13066377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Zora/pseuds/Black_Zora
Summary: Once upon a time, we were birds of a feather. But in the end, he turned out to be an eagle, and I to be a raven. He sought me to be his prey, and I, in turn, devoured him.





	Birds Of A Feather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aquila_black](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquila_black/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Told in Fallen Skies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/303172) by [dr_zook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_zook/pseuds/dr_zook). 
  * Inspired by [Do not forget that you are a disciple. Do not forget that I am the Master](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3241631) by [MagnusKervalen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagnusKervalen/pseuds/MagnusKervalen). 
  * Inspired by [Keine Andacht und kein Grab](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/346443) by eintausendschoen. 



> In canon, the Master tells us that he and Jirko learned their trade together at the mill in Commerau, went a-traveling through Lusatia, Silesia and Bohemia after that, came across a black school, where they stayed for seven years, before they took to the road again. So they must have been together for more than a decade when they had to separate ...
> 
> This was written with a bow to dr_zook, eintausendschön and MagnusKervalen, who inspired me with their Master/Jirko fics. Go read them, folks, they're definitely worth it! Also, this is more of an introductory piece. If inspiration hits me, longer and/or more detailed stories about those two might follow.

When I came to the mill in Commerau, where I met Jirko, I wasn't a boy anymore, but – almost – a man.

My father was a carpenter, and wanted me to learn the trade as well. I did not love him. He was a hot-tempered man, quick to beat me and my brothers, and my sister and mother, too. I had finished apprenticeship in the workshop of one of his friends and been a journeyman for barely a year when my father died. Two days after the burial, I left town to go a-traveling. I never saw my family again.

As a traveling carpenter, it was easy to find employment. One day, I passed through Commerau, and got word that the woodwork of the mill demanded repair. The master was glad to have me, in exchange for food, bed and modest pay. I set to my task, sometimes with one or two of the mill-hands assisting, for often, more than one pair of hands was needed.

That's how I met Jirko. He was about my age, seventeen or eighteen, and quick to joke and laugh. His hair had the color of ripe wheat, while his eyes mirrored the skies. He was a mischief-maker, but a dedicated worker nonetheless. People couldn't help but love him, especially girls, and soon, I loved him too.

Earlier that year, the master had lost two mill-hands, one to a fever, the other to adventurousness – just like I, he had gone a-traveling. So the miller watched me closely for two weeks, and when he saw that I was hardworking, knew my way with wood and got along well with his men, he asked me if I wanted to stay, to learn the trade. I agreed, and for three years, the mill became my home, the journeymen my brothers, and Jirko my lover and beloved.

Now, the latter is not to be taken lightly. If we had been weaker men, that love might well have cost our honor, if not our lives. But we were strong, and so prevailed amongst a bunch of men quick to ride roughshod over anyone who doesn't fit the picture.

When I came to Commerau, Jirko was already in his second year of apprenticeship. Master and senior journeyman taught me about milling, and Jirko ... taught me other things. At the carpenter's, there had been an older journeyman – well, he seemed older to me, but he must have been in his thirties, at the most. His name was Stepan. After work, he showed me the joys men can share, from drinking and pipe-smoking to getting hands-on. I liked him. Even after all these years, I fondly remember his calloused, but gentle hands on my body. Also, after I left home, there were girls, and one or two traveling companions. I wasn't innocent when I met Jirko. But till then, I had only known fancy, while he and I ... _matched_. We were birds of a feather – headstrong, daring, rebellious. Yet, in many things, we were opposites. His hair was yellow, mine black. His eyes were blue, mine brown. He was pliant as a willow, I sturdy as an oak. He was lighthearted, I moody. And still, we matched.

Jirko was there the day I lost my left eye, in my second year. Ota, the senior journeyman, and I were sharpening the millstones. A splinter hit my face, cut through the lid and pierced the eyeball. The pain was sharp, and the loss of sight almost immediate. I felt something warm and wet run down my cheek, and cried out in fright. Jirko, who had been working nearby, rushed to my side. He and Ota tried to calm me. One of the others called the miller and his wife, and they came running, too. Soon, everyone was gathered around me. It was quite clear that my eye couldn't be saved. To the others, that is – I needed some time to process it. The master's wife ushered me and Jirko into the kitchen, where she cleaned and dressed the wound as good as she knew. After that, Jirko led me to the chamber we shared with two of the others. There, things finally caught up with me. I was shaking all over, and started to cry. The tears burned like fire in my destroyed eye. Jirko took me into his arms and lay down with me. He kissed my face, the bandages even. There was no need to ask whether he could love a cripple. In the evening, I was ready to meet the others again, at the table. Fortunately, no one made a spectacle of what had happened. I wouldn't have been able to stand it.

Later on in my life, I learned that quite a few millers and mill-hands are one-eyed. It's one of the dangers that go with the trade, like ruined backs and bones and persistent coughs. I needed a while to adapt – the world looks different when seen through one eye solely. Still, I was working again the day after the accident, and learned to compensate for it quickly. After three years, I finished my apprenticeship as good as anyone, and better, and was promoted to journeyman. When spring came, Jirko and I packed our belongings and went a-traveling – all through Lusatia, to Silesia, to Bohemia, even. For three years, we enjoyed our freedom, until, upon our return to Lusatia, we came across a black school.

Now, that place was different from the one I ran myself, years later. The master had twelve students as well, but all of them were grown men, and agreed to the pact in full knowledge. Just like Jirko and I, they had been travelers – not all of them mill-hands, originally – and whenever there was a vacancy, the miller took a new one in. On his mill though, vacancies happened when someone had completed apprenticeship, or left for other reasons. The master did not keep anyone against their wish, and there were no sacrifices. He taught us the foundations of the secret arts, not their finery ... roots and stem, but not all of the branches. Nevertheless, we learned a great deal.

When, after seven years, we had completed apprenticeship, we took to the road again – we never even considered to part with each other. For a couple of years, we raised hell in Lusatia. Maybe we overdid it ... we provoked the wrath of quite a few of the high and mighty – we mostly didn't waste our time with the rank and file. Jirko didn't shy back from the Prince Elector, even. In consequence, we had to separate rather abruptly, to obscure our tracks. By then, both Jirko and I were in our thirties, and had been together for almost two decades.

I remember the last night we spent with each other, out in the woods, in autumn. The air was crisp, the sky full of stars. The fire had burned down. We buried into our blankets together, and embraced. He whispered that he loved me, and that we'd surely meet again. I told him I loved him too. When we woke up the next morning, we were still entangled. We got up in silence and packed. Then he went in one direction, I in the other. I dared not look back, or my resolve would have broken. It felt like Jirko took the better part of me with him.

It was the time of the great war against the Turks. I didn't care for much anymore. When, one day, recruiters passed through the village I spent the night at, I casually decided to join the Emperor's army. Maybe I wanted to challenge death. I became a common musketeer. I made new friends, many of whom died in short order. As a soldier, I did what was expected – I killed, pillaged, tortured, raped. I tried to avoid thinking of Jirko. The memory was painful, and I wasn't sure he'd know me anymore.

But Jirko was in the war, too. Without my knowledge, he had taken up with our opponent and become the Sultan's sorcerer. I don't know what he did exactly, in his service, but I'm sure it changed him, too. So maybe it's not surprising that when we finally met again, we didn't recognize each other, at first.

The last time I saw Jirko alive, it was in the Hungarian skies. On behalf of the Sultan, he had turned into an eagle. I myself rode a horse through the air to save an undeserving man. Jirko was following us, but I didn't know it was him – I could not look back, or the spell would have broken, and we would have fallen to the earth like a stone. The Marshal of Saxony, who sat on the horse with me, reported what he saw, and I acted accordingly. I instantly knew the eagle must be another sorcerer, so twice, I tried to ward him off without maiming him. But he was stronger than my spells. He would have plucked us out of the sky, which would have meant certain death – he said as much, twice. The second time he threatened us, I knew him by his voice. But there wasn't time. When I shot at him, it was over my shoulder, without aiming. I meant to frighten, not to wound or kill. But the bullet hit him, and he fell. He did recognize me then, I don't know how or why, and repeatedly cried out my name. Those screams will stay with me until I draw my last breath.

In dying, Jirko once again took a part of me with him. As he fell, his cries gripped my heart like eagle-talons, and tore it out. I buried it alongside him. Without Jirko in my life, I have no use for it anyway. (Maybe the day I join him, I'll take it back. Or – he might give it to me, if he can forgive me. I hope he will.)

Once upon a time, Jirko and I were birds of a feather. But in the end, he turned out to be an eagle, and I to be a raven. He sought me to be his prey, and I, in turn, devoured him. With that, all of my happiness died.

Love has its price also.


End file.
